The Secret Servant (19 page)

T
he Scorpion: Hell on earth,
thought Wazir al-Zayyat. One hundred squalid cells containing the most dangerous Islamic radicals and jihadists in Egypt, a dozen interrogation chambers where even the most hardened of Allah’s holy warriors vomited their secrets after just a few hours of “questioning” at the hands of Egypt’s secret police. Few who entered the Scorpion emerged with their souls or their body intact. Those who encountered Wazir al-Zayyat face-to-face rarely lived to talk about it.

The Scorpion was more crowded that afternoon than it had been in many years. Al-Zayyat did not find this particularly remarkable, since he was the man most responsible for the sudden surge of new arrivals. The prisoner now under interrogation in Room 4 was among the most promising: Hussein Mandali, a middle school teacher from the Sword of Allah stronghold of Imbaba. He had been captured twelve hours earlier on suspicion of distributing a recorded sermon by Sheikh Tayyib Abdul Razzaq. That in itself was hardly a novel offense—the sheikh’s scorching sermons were the hip-hop of Egypt’s downtrodden masses—but the content of the sermon found on Mandali was highly significant. In it the sheikh had made reference to the abduction of the American woman in London and had called for a popular uprising against the regime, a set of circumstances that suggested the sermon had been recorded very recently. Al-Zayyat knew that tapes did not appear by magic or by the divine will of Allah. He was convinced that Hussein Mandali was the break he had been looking for.

Al-Zayyat pushed open the door and went inside. Three interrogators were leaning against the gray walls, sleeves rolled up, faces glistening with sweat. Hussein Mandali was seated at the metal table, his face bloodied and swollen, his body covered with welts and burns. A good start, thought al-Zayyat, but not enough to break a boy from the slums of Imbaba.

Al-Zayyat sat down opposite Mandali and pressed the
PLAY
button on the tape recorder resting in the center of the table. A moment later, the thin, reedy voice of Sheikh Tayyib was reverberating off the walls of the interrogation room. Al-Zayyat allowed the sermon to go on for several minutes before finally reaching down and jabbing the
STOP
button with his thick forefinger.

“Where did you get this tape?” he asked calmly.

“It was given to me by a man in a coffeehouse in Imbaba.”

Al-Zayyat sighed heavily and glanced at the three interrogators. The beating they administered was twenty minutes in duration and, even by Egyptian standards, savage in its intensity. Mandali, when he was returned to his seat at the interrogation table, was barely conscious and weeping like a child. Al-Zayyat pressed the
PLAY
button for a second time.

“Where did you get this tape?”

“From a man in—”

Al-Zayyat quickly cut in. “Yes, I remember, Hussein—you got it from a man in a coffeehouse in Imbaba. But what was this man’s name?”

“He didn’t…tell me.”

“Which coffeehouse?”

“I can’t…remember.”

“You’re sure, Hussein?”

“I’m…sure.”

Al-Zayyat stood without another word and nodded to the interrogators. As he stepped into the corridor he could hear Mandali begging for mercy.
“Do not fear the henchmen of Pharaoh,”
the sheikh was telling him.
“Place your faith in Allah, and Allah will protect you.”

T
here had been no time for Housekeeping to acquire proper safe lodging for Gabriel’s team in Copenhagen, and so they had settled instead at the Hotel d’Angleterre, a vast white luxury liner of a building looming over the sprawling King’s New Square. Gabriel and Sarah arrived shortly after 5:30 and made their way to a room on the fourth floor. Mordecai was seated at the writing desk in stocking feet, headphones over his ears, eyes fixed on a pair of receivers like a doctor reading a brain scan for signs of life. Gabriel slipped on the spare set, then looked at Mordecai and grimaced.

“It sounds as though there’s a pile driver in the room.”

“There is,” Mordecai said. “And his name is Ahmed. He’s banging a toy against the floor a few inches from the phone.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“An hour.”

“Why doesn’t she ask him to stop?

“Maybe she’s deaf. God knows I will be soon if he doesn’t stop.”

“Any activity on the line yet?”

“Just one outgoing call,” Mordecai said. “She called Ibrahim in Amsterdam to complain about Ishaq’s prolonged absence. Unless it was an elaborate ruse, she doesn’t know anything.”

Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. It was 5:37. A spy’s life, he thought. Mind-numbing boredom broken by brief interludes of sheer terror. He slipped on the headset and waited for Hanifah’s telephone to ring.

They adopted the uncomfortable silence of strangers at a wake and together endured an evening of frightening banality. Ahmed ramming his toy against the kitchen floor. Ahmed pretending to be a jet airplane. Ahmed kicking a ball against the wall of the sitting room. At 8:15, there was an ear-shattering crash. Though they were never able to accurately identify the object lost, it was of sufficient value to launch Hanifah into a hysterical tirade. A remorseful Ahmed responded by asking whether his father was going to telephone that night. Gabriel, who was pacing the floor as though looking for lost valuables, froze and awaited the answer. He’ll call if he can, Hanifah said. He always does. Ibrahim, it seemed, had been telling the truth after all.

At 8:20, Ahmed was ordered into a bath. Hanifah cleaned up the disaster in the sitting room, then switched on the television. Her choice of channels was illuminative, for it soon became clear she was watching al-Manar, the official television network of Hezbollah. For the next twenty minutes, while Ahmed splashed about in his tub, they were forced to sit through a sermon by a Lebanese cleric who extolled the bravery of the Sword of Allah and called for more acts of terror against the infidel Americans and their Zionist allies.

At 8:43, the sermon was interrupted by the shrill scream of the telephone. Hanifah answered it quickly and, in Arabic, said, “Ishaq, is that you?” It was not Ishaq but a very confused Danish man looking for someone named Knud. Hearing the voice of an Arabic-speaking woman—and, no doubt, the clerical rant in the background—he apologized profusely and hastily rang off. Hanifah returned the receiver to the cradle and shouted at Ahmed to get out of the bath. The Hezbollah preacher shouted back that the time had come for the Muslims of the world to finish the job Hitler had started.

Mordecai looked at Gabriel in exasperation. “Both of us don’t have to sit through this shit,” he said. “Why don’t you get out of here for a few minutes?”

“I don’t want to miss his call.”

“That’s what the recorders are for.” Mordecai handed Gabriel his coat and gave him a little shove toward the door. “Go get something to eat. And take Sarah with you. You two make a nice couple.”

A string quartet was sawing away indifferently at a Bach minuet downstairs in the parlor. Gabriel and Sarah slipped past them without a glance and struck out across the square toward the cafés along the New Harbor. It had turned much colder; Sarah wore a beret, and her coat collar was turned up dramatically. When Gabriel teased her about looking too much like a spy, she seized his arm playfully and pressed her body against his shoulder. They sat outside along the quay and drank freezing Carlsberg beneath a hissing gas heater. Gabriel picked at a plate of fried cod and potatoes while Sarah stared at the colorful floodlit façades of the canal houses on the opposite embankment.

“Better than Langley, I suppose.”

“Anything is better than Langley,” he said.

She looked up at the hard black sky. “I suppose your fate is now in the hands of NSA and its satellites.”

“Yours, too,” Gabriel said. “You would have been wise to go to London with Adrian.”

“And miss this?” She lowered her gaze toward the canal houses. “If he calls tonight, do you think we’ll be able to find her?”

“It depends on how well NSA is able to pinpoint Ishaq’s location. Even if NSA does manage to locate Elizabeth, Washington is going to have another problem—how to get her out alive. Ishaq and his colleagues are more than willing to die, which means that any attempt to storm the hideout will no doubt end violently. But I’m sure
expert opinion
will come up with a plan.”

“Don’t play the wounded martyr, Gabriel. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I didn’t appreciate some of the things that were said about me in Washington today.”

“Washington is a town without pity.”

“So is Jerusalem.”

“Then you’re going to need a thicker skin when you become the chief of the Office.” She gave him a mischievous sideways glance over the top of her collar. “Adrian says it’s just a rumor, but, judging from your reaction, it’s true.” She raised her glass.
“Mazel tov.”

“Condolences would be more appropriate.”

“You don’t want the job?”

“Some men have greatness thrust upon them.”

“You’re in a fine mood tonight.”

“Forgive me, Sarah. Talk of genocide and extermination tends to spoil the evening for me.”

“Oh, that.” She sipped her beer and fought off a shiver. “You know, this restaurant does have an indoor section.”

“Yes, but it’s harder for me to tell whether we’re being watched.”

“Are we?”

“You’re trained in countersurveillance. You tell me.”

“There was a man drinking in the bar when we left the hotel,” she said. “He’s now standing on the other side of the canal with a woman who’s at least fifteen years older than he is.”

“Is he Danish security?”

“He was speaking German in the bar.”

“So.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think he’s Danish security. What do you think?”

“I think he’s a German gigolo who’s going to take that poor woman for every penny she has.”

“Should we warn her?”

“I’m afraid we have enough to worry about tonight.”

“Are you always such a charming date?”

“I didn’t realize this was a date.”

“It’s the closest thing to a date I’ve had in a long time.”

Gabriel gave her a disbelieving look and popped a piece of fish into his mouth. “Do you really expect me to believe you have difficulty attracting men?”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but at the moment I’m living under an assumed identity because of my role in the al-Bakari operation. It makes it rather difficult to meet men. Even my coworkers in the CTC don’t know my real name or anything about my past. I suppose it’s for the best. Anyone I met now wouldn’t stand a chance anyway. I’m afraid my heart has been taken hostage by someone else.” She peered at him over her glass. “Now is the time you’re supposed to bashfully ask me the name of the man who’s kidnapped my heart.”

“Some questions are better left unasked, Sarah.”

“You’re such a stoic, aren’t you, Gabriel?” She took a drink of her beer and resumed her appraisal of the canal houses. “But your heart is spoken for, too, isn’t it?”

“Trust me, Sarah—you can do far better than a fifty-something misanthrope from the Valley of Jezreel.”

“I’ve always been attracted to misanthropic men, especially gifted ones. But I’m afraid my timing has always been lousy. It’s why I studied art instead of music.” She gave him a bittersweet smile. “It’s Chiara, isn’t it?”

Gabriel nodded his head slowly.

“I could always tell,” Sarah said. “She’s a very lucky girl.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“She’s far too young for you, you know.”

“She’s older than
you
, but thanks for the reminder anyway.”

“If she ever throws you over for a younger man…” Her voice trailed off. “Well, you know where to find me. I’ll be the lonely former museum curator working the graveyard shift on the Saudi Arabia desk of the Counterterrorism Center.”

Gabriel reached out and touched her face. The cold had added a dab of crimson to her alabaster cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“We should have never used you. We should have found someone else.”

“There is no one else like me,” she said. “But I guess you already know that.”

A band of Chinese tourists, Europe’s newest packaged invaders, were posing for pictures in the center of the King’s New Square. Gabriel took Sarah by the arm and led her the long way round, while privately he waxed poetic on the splendid irony of a people on the march vacationing in the shrines of a civilization in twilight. They entered the lobby of the d’Angleterre under the admiring gaze of the concierge and climbed the stairs to the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon. Mordecai was pacing nervously as they slipped quietly into the room. He pressed a pair of headphones into Gabriel’s hand and led him over to the recorders. “He called,” he whispered. “He actually called. We’ve got him, Gabriel. You’ve done it.”

T
he truth had come out in Interrogation Room 4 of the Scorpion, but then it always did. Just as Wazir al-Zayyat had suspected, Hussein Mandali was no ordinary middle school teacher. He was a senior operative of the Sword of Allah and commander of an important cell based in Imbaba. He had also confessed to being present when Sheikh Tayyib recorded his sermon calling for an uprising against the regime, a recording session that had taken place Sunday morning in Apartment 2408 of the Ramses Towers, a luxury block north of the Gezira Sporting Club filled with foreigners, film stars, and newly rich friends of the regime. A quick check of the files had revealed that the apartment in question was owned by a company called Nejad Holdings, and a second check had confirmed that Nejad Holdings was controlled by one Prince Rashid bin Sultan al-Saud.

It was not the first time the prince’s name had arisen in connection with Islamic terrorism in Egypt. He’d funneled millions of dollars into the pockets of the Egyptian jihadists over the years, including fronts and entities controlled by the Sword of Allah. But because the prince was a Saudi—and because impoverished Egypt was beholden to Saudi economic aid—al-Zayyat had had no choice but to turn a blind eye to his charitable endeavors.
This is different
, he thought now. Giving money to Islamist causes was one thing; providing aid and shelter to a terrorist bent on the destruction of the Mubarak regime was quite another. If the SSI managed to find Sheikh Tayyib hiding in a Saudi-owned property, it might very well give al-Zayyat the ammunition he needed to end Saudi meddling in Egypt’s internal affairs once and for all.

Al-Zayyat arrived at the Ramses Towers shortly after 10:30 and found the building surrounded by several hundred raw police recruits. He knew that many of the young officers secretly supported the goals of the Sword—and that many of them, if given the opportunity, would gladly duplicate the actions of Lieutenant Khaled Islambouli and put a bullet through Pharaoh’s chest. He directed his driver to a spot across the street and lowered his window. Aman from his directorate, spotting the official Mercedes, came over at a trot.

“We went in about two minutes ago,” the officer said. “The place was empty, but it was clear someone had been there recently and that whoever it was had left in a hurry. There was food on the table and pans in the kitchen. Everything was still warm.”

Al-Zayyat swore softly. Was it bad luck, or did he have a traitor in his midst—someone inside the SSI who had alerted the sheikh that Mandali had been captured and was talking?

“Close the Zamalek bridges,” he said. “No one gets off the island without a thorough search. Then start knocking on doors inside the Ramses. I don’t care if you have to ruffle the feathers of the rich and famous. I want to make sure the sheikh isn’t still hiding somewhere inside.”

The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.

“We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.

“Shall we have another go at Mandali?”

“No, he’s dry, too.”

“What do you want us to do with him?”

“We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”